


The Phantom of the Subway

by thegrendel



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, New York City, Predator/Prey, Regret, Restraints, Subways, Unintended Consequences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 23:44:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15651363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrendel/pseuds/thegrendel
Summary: Cyrano was a sexual predator, and wasn't ashamed of it. But then he met his match. And then some.





	The Phantom of the Subway

The woman had huge, haunted eyes.

Only two stops to go. Once again he had blown it. He still hadn't  
connected with the mysterious lady in the trenchcoat. But then, you just  
didn't talk to strangers on the New York subway. If you knew what was  
good for you, you didn't even look them in the eye. But he might never  
see her again.

Ron considered himself something of a superstud. His looks were nothing  
to write home about, but that had never stopped him from making it  
with the ladies. Even _living off_ the ladies when finances got a  
little tight. But making pickups on the subway . . . that was a whole  
different ballgame.

One last, desperate chance. Ron fished a red felt-tip marker, then  
a dollar bill out of his pocket. He quickly scribbled "Cyrano" on  
it. The dollar was grimy and creased, but the writing was legible. As  
an afterthought, he added, "You're special. I know why. Want to know  
more?" He thought of including his e-mail address or phone number, but  
no, that might be pushing things. Gotta play this fish just right. If  
he had hooked her, she'd meet him again. Right here on the D Train.

This was his stop -- 72nd Street. Ron dropped the dollar at her feet  
as he passed her on the way out. It took all his self-discipline not to  
look back.

There, he had done it. Scored a coup. Results uncertain, but he felt  
pretty good about it. He had a hot hand, Ron did, just like an alleged  
ancestor of his, a certain gentleman named de Bergerac. When his parents,  
hopeless romantics both, had named him Cyrano (or, in everyday usage,  
Ron), they had no idea that it would shape his life. That he would end  
up inheriting a somewhat larger-than-normal nose. That he himself would  
turn out to be just the opposite of a hopeless romantic: a swordsman  
between the bedsheets, and a cynical manipulator and heartbreaker to boot.
    
    
           All right, so I spot this chump staring at me. I was on the prowl,
           you know, and the guy was definitely a "possible." Good thing, too.
           It was just the right time of month. I felt so empty inside and
           my juices were flowing. I was burning up. I wanted someone inside
           me so bad and this guy was just right. Nice body parts. Young,
           healthy . . . and gullible. He might as well be wearing a "victim"
           sign. Okay, let's play hard to get. Come on, Mr. Chump, chase
           the bait.
    

Every day for a week Ron stalked the entire length of the 5:15 train  
looking for her. Where was she? Making a deliberate effort to avoid him?  
Had she changed her schedule? Was it only random chance? Damn it, he was  
wasting his time. Why was he making a fool of himself over this dame? She  
was just a piece of ass. Nothing special, just another pussy. DAMN IT,  
WHERE WAS SHE?

Friday finally -- there she was! There! Sitting in the end car. She  
glanced up and saw him. She smiled. Smiled! She cocked an index finger  
at him and nodded. Hallelujah!

Holding on to a strap, standing beside her, superslick Ron was reviewing  
pickup lines in his head. Somehow, none of them seemed quite right. This  
was embarrassing. He couldn't think of a friggin' thing to say.

She looked up at him. "Hello would be a good beginning," she said.

"Hello, baby." 

"Hello, Mr. Special."
    
    
           Mr. Special Chump. What a bozo.
    

"I'm a fool. Sure. A special fool. How wonderful that you recognized that.  
Now, look at me, look closely and see yourself mirrored in my eyes. In me,  
in my heart, in my soul, your image blazes. I _know_ who you are,  
and I see what you could be. I gaze upon you and look at your full,  
burning passion and I see . . . Tell me, what do I see?"
    
    
           I see . . . a prime cut of meat on the hoof. I'm salivating.
    

"Quite an impressive speech, Mr. Special. I'm convinced. Convinced that  
you're either a nut case or a fool for love. I'm not sure which is worse."
    
    
           A chump is worse.
    

"No doubt the latter, Miss . . . uh, may I call you Roxanne?"

"If indeed you are a poet and swordsman, then I will play Roxanne to  
your Cyrano."

(She knew! The literature gambit had snared her. Now on to stage two.)
    
    
           Does this chump think I'm ignorant? I can spout literature all
           day if I have to. I can be quite entertaining if the situation
           presents itself . . . the better to eat you, my dear.
    

"Cyrano I am. And that being the case, would Madame permit my humble  
self to entertain her exalted ladyship."

She smiled. "Madame permits."
    
    
           Madame permits Mr. Chump to entertain certain dangerous delusions.
    

He suggested a rendezvous in a gourmet restaurant near his apartment.

"My dear Cyrano, with me one need not go through an elaborate courtship  
dance. Foolish rituals are for fools. I am a woman who knows what she  
wants. _Exactly_ what she wants. Right now I want _you_.  
I would take you home."
    
    
           Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.
    

The woman sitting beside Roxanne got up and exited at the next stop. Ron  
sat down. Roxanne took his hand and clasped it to her bosom. He leered.  
Other passengers snickered.

"I'm game," he replied nonchalantly. "My nose may be long, but so is  
my sword."
    
    
           You certainly are game. Prey.
    

"Monsieur de Bergerac, might you care to sheathe your sword?"
    
    
           Do you know how spiders do it? While the male is busy sheathing
           his sword, the female is . . . having him for dinner.
    

"Call me Ron. My friends do."

"Right. Ron, we have a bit of a ride ahead of us. We change lines here."

The L Line. Fourteenth Street and First Avenue station. They got off  
the train. Ron turned toward the concrete stairway leading up to the  
street, but Roxanne stopped him.

"This way. Follow me."

_This way_ led toward the far end of the train platform.

"Where the bloody hell are you taking me, Roxanne?"

"Trust me."

(Hey! That's the line _I_ use with the ladies.)

The light from an endless row of dirt-encrusted wall-mounted fluorescents  
was just bright enough to make out a dented metal gray-painted door in  
the wall. With a theatrical flourish, Roxanne produced a key and unlocked  
it. A dimly lit shaft led downward into the distance.

(Deep into the bowels of the earth. Where is she leading me? Where the  
hell does she live? Maybe literally in Hell. Well, if it comes to that,  
I'd follow that round, beckoning ass of hers into the very fires of  
Hell. 'Cause I'm gonna _nail_ that ass.)

At first the tunnel slanted downward at a slight angle, but it soon  
leveled off. The lighting remained steady, if a bit dim, and they picked  
their way along the roadbed of a train track. The track ended as they  
went further, and the ground changed from rough gravel to hard-packed  
dirt. The walls of the shaft looked like unfinished rock face. Regularly  
spaced roughly timbered wooden beams shored up the ceiling.

"Where are we -- "

"Hush. We're almost there. Home. My home. My mansion."

Over there! In a niche by the far wall was what looked like -- what?  
A shack? No, a construction trailer. There was lettering on the door:
    
    
                             Metropolitan Transit Authority
                       Second Avenue Subway Construction Project
                         The Honorable Abraham D. Beame, Mayor
                                          1973
    

(The legendary Second Avenue subway line -- in planning since the 1920s,  
repeatedly postponed for decades due to lack of funds. They finally had  
started building it in the early 1970s, then abandoned it a couple of  
years later in the middle of a fiscal crisis. Maybe it had left behind  
a few relics . . . and ghosts.)

"You _live_ in this dump?"

"Home, sweet home."

A shadow materialized. It was a man. A man in uniform. An armed guard.  
Armed with what looked like a military assault rifle. He nodded at  
Roxanne and gave Ron a menacing scowl.

"Part of the security staff," Roxanne said.

Security staff? In the sealed up remains of the abandoned Second Avenue  
subway line? Just what the hell was going on down here?

Roxanne stepped into the trailer and manipulated some switches on an  
illuminated panel. "Disarming the electronic safeguards," she said.

Electronic safeguards? High-tech security equipment in an abandoned  
construction trailer? Just what the hell had he gotten himself into?  
This piece of ass had damn well better be worth it.

Then she had him by the elbow and was steering him into a room. It seemed  
to be a bedroom of sorts. At least it had a plush looking four-poster bed.  
"Undress," she said. He did. It was chilly and he broke out in goosebumps.  
He was starting to get an erection.

(Almost there. Only a few more minutes til I add another pussy to my  
collection.)

"Turn around," she said. He did. "Stop." She inspected him as if he were  
an animal on display at a county fair. "You'll do."

(Turning the tables on me, baby? Just you wait. In a little while it'll  
be my turn.)

She was straddling him. Flat on his back, looking up at her bouncing  
breasts as she rode him, he was thinking just how strange this day had  
turned out. He was actually getting laid hundreds of feet beneath Second  
Avenue! She leaned over and her hair tickled his face as she kissed him.

(Whoa. Making it with the Phantom of the Subway. The boys at the bar  
will never believe this one.)

 

He was spreadeagled. His mouth was dry. He hurt. After drifting into a  
gentle sleep, with the warm fuzzy feeling of _afterwards_ tingling  
through his body, he had awakened in pain. He was flat on his back,  
with arms and legs stretched out at a 45-degree angle by handcuffs and  
cables fastened to the posts of the bed. Immobilized. Imprisoned. He  
yelled for help. No one answered.

After a time he slept again. And awoke. He wasn't alone.

"Roxanne? Why am I tied up? I'm thirsty."

"Poor boy. Sorry about the restraints. They're for your own good. You  
had an attack. Seizures. But don't worry. Roxie will take good care of  
her baby. Here."

She held a squeeze-bottle up to his mouth. "Drink. Drink deeply."

He did, and immediately a wave of suffocating darkness washed over him.  
He was drowning! Going under! Dying!

He was conscious, but couldn't move. He sensed dimly that his arms  
and legs were free, but there was no feeling in them. Much of his body  
felt numb, deadened. There was a dull ache in his right side. He had a  
raging thirst.

"Water!" he managed to croak.
    
    
           Poor baby. Probably doesn't feel so good. Well, lots of people
           go through life with only one kidney.
    

He took a long sip from the squeeze-bottle and darkness came again.

There was a heavy weight on his chest. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't  
get enough air. The room swam in and out of his sight.

"Roxanne! I don't feel good."
    
    
           That's understandable. Losing a lung will do it to you every time.
    

Then she was beside him, holding him. She kissed him gently on the  
forehead. "There, there, my little child. It's all right. Trust me. Trust  
Roxie."

Her hand was between his legs. He felt himself getting hard. Lust overcame  
nausea. Blood coursed through his veins and life burned strong in him  
once more.

"I want you, Ron. Stick it in me. Do it. Who knows when you'll get the  
chance again?"
    
    
           Never. We'll be harvesting your testicles next. Just got a rush
           order from a medical lab upstate. After that, probably your
           corneas, then maybe your other kidney and your liver. You'll end
           your days as a skeleton hanging in front of an anatomy class. Bye,
           bye, Cyrano. It's been nice knowing you.
    

It was slow and gentle sex. He was confused and uncoordinated, and she had  
to help him insert as he took her from behind in the spoon position. He  
cried out as he came, then thanked her. His speech was slurred. She wiped  
a stray tear from her cheek.

Afterwards, he drifted into an exhausted sleep. It wouldn't be necessary  
to drug him this time.


End file.
